


Everybody loves Watson, why should I be any different

by katiebuttercup



Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV)
Genre: Introspection, M/M, Pining Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2019-05-02 02:20:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14534577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiebuttercup/pseuds/katiebuttercup
Summary: Everybody loves Watson, why should I be any different





	1. Chapter 1

Watson labours under the false presumption that my clients come only for my specific skill set. It is a presumption I have done little to disabuse him of. 

It is true my singular gifts when applied to the task are considerable but it is to Watson that they flock, eager for his kindness, his understanding. They rely on him to interpret my impatience to sooth ruffled spirits and Watson does so. 

I have no doubt that left to my own devices many clients would walk out the door in mere moments never to find the answers they seek.

Everyone loves Watson and I am no different. Familiarity has leant me no inoculation against his charms or wit. 

He writes as if I were a magician, unveiling my deductions as if they were magic tricks without realising whom the reveals are for. 

He writes me better than I am and he writes himself worse, casting himself as my sidekick, with little use than to apprehend the villain or as a vessel for my deductions. But John Watson is a smarter man than he would ever own, eager to dim his light so that my own should burn brigher. 

Perhaps if I were to offer my own account of our time together I would redress the imbalance. It is only his embrassment that stays my hand. He would not believe it anyway.

Even as I stand at my window watching the world pass my Watson is out on his rounds tirelessly administering aid to those in need even as the weather tries his old war wounds. 

He will not think to stay home despite my protestations.

Logic informs my world even as Watson gives it colour and definition, and reason. 

Watson loves the world and in its turn it loves him, and why should I be any different?


	2. Chapter 2

The chill seeps in and yet Watson barely slows down. No doubt the ache from his wounds are torturing him if his heavy breathing and clenched jaw are anything to go by. But I demanded that Watson give chase and so my loyal Boswell does so. His bravery is remarkable, his courage second to none. In my line of work it would be easy to see the worst in humanity but Watson refuses to be ground down by the often deplorable actions of his fellow man. 

If there is justice to be sought John Watson will stop at nothing to achieve it. Even breaking the law-or at least bending it slightly. 

His health, his comfort means nothing to him if it means he can bring hope and solace to another-even if that someone is as mercurial and cold as I. 

If there is a shoulder to cry upon, a penny to be given, a medicine to be administered at any ungodly hour, then my Watson is your man.

It is my selfishness that keeps him from a comfortable practice, where he could sit in comfort and soothe his loyal patients. But I have lived without my Watson for three years and cannot abide being away from him another second. 

I had grudgingly shared him with Mary- a woman worthy of Watson’s abiding love.

But it is now he and I back together again. I can be grandiose and smug because when Watson is by my side I feel no fear, why should I? I have the best man in England at my back, it is better than the whole force of Scotland Yard. 

His instinctual understanding of where I need him to be borders on the supernatural, his genius such as it it is, is in his ability to be forgotten. I never have to think of the danger because I know Watson has thought of it first and has taken the appropriate steps. 

Watson often portrays me as a machine, a mind rather than a man. Watson is the opposite, a creature of instinct, so imbedded in his own body it is second nature. Perhaps it is the military in him. I do not care. I am greatful for it. 

However, here, in the privacy of these notes I can say that sometimes I forget my Watson is not a machine, that his body has endured terrible hardship and that although i rely on his strength daily I often forget that his wounds have never truly healed. Perhaps that it my fault; chasing criminals is hardly the work for a convelsing doctor. 

Perhaps if I had not dragged him into the world of the criminal, he may have healed by now. 

It is these thoughts that plague me as I watch the aftermath of the case. The felon in chains ans Lestrade put his hand on Watson’s good shoulder and speak good naturedly to him. 

It is clear Watson is fatigued, though he showed none of it to me. Should I approach. Watson would be back on his feet, eager to administer to my own superficial wounds. 

But by keeping a distance I see how Watson breathes shakily, how his body trembles with the pain of his shoulder and leg. 

Lestrade meets my gaze over Watson’s head, despite his flaws Lestrade is a good man and not an entirely hopeless lost cause in detective work. But Watson is our bridge and we both know it.

“Watson!” 

I let none of my concern bleed the through the friendly call, we are both very aware of our roles. Watson has always been the protector. Any concern on my side led to embrassment and gruff terseness. 

“Time to go home,” I say, “Mrs Hudson was quite particular on the point.” I make a show of looking at my pocket watch. Watson scolds me good naturedly even as he bids Lestrade goodnight and we hail a cab. The best way to help a Watson was to let them help you, I know from long experience. And if Watson leaned in to me a little more than usual as his the pain in his leg flared, well I was very good at keeping secrets.


	3. Reconciliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is back from the dead and John is greatful to have his friend back but reluctant to resume their old life as detectives

Set in the empty house so is set before the other chapters

It was perhaps arrogant of me to think that Watson would receive me with open arms although all evidence of our previous long companionship had assured me of his devotion to our friendship. However I had erred. The weight of my “death” fell heavy on his heart, heavier then I had dared to imagine, and not long after my own “death” his beloved Mary had been taken from him. 

I had failed to take into account the depth of feeling a human heart can harbor, All my life I have relied upon logic to guide me, it is under Watson’s tutelage that I have begun to listen to an organ I have hitherto have given little thought beyond the pumping and circulation of blood. However my absence from Watson has atrophied the skill and I must attempt to relearn by lessons. 

I sit with Lestrade in Baker Street, I have helped with some small frivolous matter and expect the inspector to rise to leave but he does not and I cannot deny that I am greatful for the company. It is not Watson but I have become used to his absence though it smarts all the more when I am surrounded by memories of pleasanter times.

“You gave the doctor quite the shock,” Lestrade chides me good naturedly, “but I am sure that in a few days he will be right by your side once more and that things will be set right and be as if nothing has changed.”

I wished I shared his optimism. Watson had received me warmly in his rooms; his relief and concern for me completely genuine and yet there was something missing.

A distance. A distance of three years sitting between us.

Watson had always been a balwark strong and steady and adaptable, I had relied upon his endless courage to see him through our separation, I had hoped the balm of Mary would have soothed his worries away and instead I had heaped tragedy upon my dearest friend, my constant companion and then sprung out of nowhere and expected him to welcome me back?

Perhaps the three years had dulled my senses beyond recognition. 

“Perhaps I could find an interesting case,” Lestrade is saying comfortingly, “something that will focus your mind until Doctor Watson is ready to take up the mantle of biographer again.”

He made it sound so easy.

“And you think Watson will return?” I sound caustic but thinking of the guarded way Watson had spoken to me in his consulting room, warm and jovial but the timbre of his tone was off, it rattled my nerves like a missed note or a untuned violin. 

“Of course,” Leatrade enthused, “although of course he is much sought over for his medical services...”

Lestrade rambled on and I ponder, can I do it again? Rip Watson away from a profitable and safe occupation? Perhaps Watson no longer craved the action and adventure of his youth, perhaps he preferred to use his skills in the comfort of his consulting room, the rewards would be much greater than traipsing across country with me hunting villains day and night with nary a soft bed to sleep in nor a warm meal to lessen the hardships. 

I had left London a different city

I had left a different Watson 

For once I could not deduce Watson’s answer and all I could so was wait. 

I lean in and take the first case file Lestrade had brought. Busy work would keep my brain active long enough not to stagnate until my Watson returned to me. I could only hope it would not take another three years.


	4. Chapter 4

I read Watson’s writing, try to see the case through the lens of Watson’s pen to see myself through Watson’s eyes. The man in the stories resemble me, I recognise my words, my abilities but the Holmes in these stories feels like a mirror image, for all outward appearances reflecting the subject but it is hollow, a reflection nothing more. 

I have never had a large pool of friends, I am aware that the values of logic and deduction are not shared by my fellow man that I am a figure of ridicule and distain, barely tolerable to many. Except of course, Watson and to a lesser extend Lestrade who see something other than the machine of my mind. Both have learned at my shoulder, Watson coming along leaps and bounds. He rarely mentions his own merits in his writings, it is always I who have all the answers. 

I keep my own counsel not because I am proud but because it keeps Watson safe, he is a man or action, fearless and loyal but it is I who is seen as the enemy and so must bare the brunt of the abuse. 

And I am vain. I like to see Watson’s expressions. 

I see Watson’s love in his writings. I amaze him, a creature of superhuman will and ability, Watson illustrates all my superior skill and flaws and yet remains blind to the truth.

In his stories I seem to barely acknowledge him, that he is simply a lackey or a foot soldier and I wonder, can Watson really not see me? Can he not see how everything I do is for him? To appease him? To astound him? That I need no other audience but him. 

I have a battered copy of watson’s writing, a second hand copy I managed to find; I have annotated the pages with my own notes, a moment of watson’s brilliance, his kindness. My hands shake as I read my own callousness as I “read” Watson’s watch, as I detail his unhappy brother’s downfall. I should not have done so. The pain on Watson’s face was like a slap to my own and I wished that I had not opened my mouth. 

I resolve to be better, to try harder. One day I will write my own stories and the world will know how I value my companion.


End file.
